


The Mystery Of The Glanville Orange

by Torak (awmperry)



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Action, Comedy, Film Noir, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awmperry/pseuds/Torak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seriously, I wrote this thing and even I'm not sure what it's about. It's a sort of film noir detective comedy... that's about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery Of The Glanville Orange

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a lengthy chaptered story - but I'm not sure when I'll have any ideas to continue it. But the first chapter is more or less self-contained, so it might amuse you.
> 
> Reviews are very much appreciated - as is constructive criticism. Thanks for reading.

## **The Mystery of the Glanville Orange**

  


**CAST**

**Frank Stone —** Private Investigator, age 39 and a bit. Well, 39 and quite a few bits. Looks at least ten years older, rapidly balding. Tall but scrawny, with what he considers a "heroic" moustache and "rugged" features. He is wrong on both counts. He has pretensions to the upper crust, but speaks with the voice of too many American detective novels. Quite fancies himself, and is a bit thick.

**Doris —** His secretary. Young, attractive, and considerably brighter than he is. Utterly unflappable, honours in forensic pathology and generally cutting people open, and gutted her first mugger when she was twelve. Never goes anywhere without at least three knives about her person. Has an unexplained pathological fear of clementines.

**Grace Van Tietje —** A tall, buxom blonde with a tale of woe. Previous owner of the Glanville Orange. Probably evil, but inexplicably men can't usually remember what was actually wrong with succubi, once you got right down to it, really. Jayne Mansfield meets Sabrina, with possibly a hint of cataclysm.

**The Glanville Orange —** The MacGuffin. Nobody knows what it is except Grace, and she's not telling. Hell, I don't know what it is yet. Either way, everyone wants it. A secret agent might be involved.

**The City —** What the modern world would be like back in the forties. Still has the technology and the cars and the computers, but with forties fashion and style and music. New York meets London meets film noir. Basically it's all in black and white, and soulful saxophone laments drift from every rooftop. There is no such thing as bright lighting, and all windows have Venetian blinds. Street lamps exist only to be dramatically posed beneath, without casting any actual useful light.

* * *

**_Harry Potter and the Mystery of the Glanville Orange_**

It was a dark and stormy night, on account of tradition. The rain beat down heavily on the dark, oilily glistening streets of the city as the neon lights extolled the virtues of their wares from the walls towering above on all sides. Lights twinkled in penthouses and offices, the odd siren was punctuated by a crack of lightning, and police cars and taxis roamed the streets in search of prey. From somewhere far above, a bluesy saxophone crooned a slinky serenade into the night.

It was a bloody awful night to be out. In fact, it was exactly the right sort of night to be in my office, nursing a Talisker and waiting for a tall, mysterious, buxom blonde to come in with a tale of exotic birds of prey.

Which, in conjunction with my usual luck, was precisely why I was downtown in a back alley, lying in a dumpster with my head in the remnants of someone's ravioli, and a black plastic bag full of, apparently, a mixture of old cheese and fermented cats providing my only protection from the rain steadily soaking through my coat.

I sat up. A bit of potato peel dangled humorously from my ear, as is the custom, and I wiped the ravioli off my face with a mixture of rainwater and slightly-less-filthy-than-my-coat shirt. I investigated my head. There was a definite bump there, and the resulting dizziness made my exit from the dumpster rather less dignified than I had intended. But at least I was out of it, and a downpipe a few yards away was helpfully providing a steady stream of cleanish water, a part of the continuous cascade pouring off the multi-acre rooftops.

I made my way to the downpipe and tried to collect my thoughts while attempting with some effort to ignore the throbbing pain in my head.

***

It had all started late that afternoon. I was on a perfectly normal stakeout, watching a house supposedly involved in gunrunning, and was busily observing the house through my lightly closed eyelids. This was a ruse, obviously — who would suspect a courier taking a nap? — and an experienced PI like me would never fall asleep on the job for real. Given my finely tuned senses and my always high readiness, I was slightly surprised — not to mention impressed — when one of the house's inhabitants got into the cab before I had time to notice. I remember being amazed that she had been able to run so quietly in such high heels.

"Get me out of here," she blurted breathlessly, "Anywhere, just go!"

I blinked. On the one hand, this would mean leaving the stakeout — but it could also mean a big break for me on the case. I dug out my keys and inserted them into the ignition of my large Volvo estate. I decided I wanted a bit more information, though.

"What's the matter, lady?"

This was unwise. Her eyes opened wide, and I was for a moment afraid that I had been too presumptuous. However, I was reassured a moment later when a large arm reached in and pulled me out onto the tarmac. As the boots rose and fell, I was delighted that I had yet again managed to avoid offending a lady. So pleased, in fact, that I hardly noticed the pain. Whatever any witnesses might scurrilously — and, I need hardly say, falsely! — claim, I was not 'blubbering like a baby'. The nerve!

I vaguely saw the woman caught, as she tried to run away, by an enormous man who would have looked more in place on the doorstep of a particularly rough club than in the cheap, oversized suit he was wearing.

Then a stick hit me in the back of the head, and I woke up in the dumpster. Though I would be the first to agree that variety is the spice of life, there are some tourist spots that are best seen from outside, and dumpsters are one of them.

There was little I could do in my current state, sodden and filthy as I was, so I wrung out my shirt as best I could and set off towards my office. I recognised where I was immediately; not more than a ten-minute away.

Three hours later — it's amazing how different the city looks at night, and I'm sure several areas must have been redesigned since I was last there, there's no other explanation for it — I dragged my sorry carcass in through the doors of my office.

"Doris," I gasped. "You can stop worrying now. I'm fine!"

She was clearly overwhelmed with shock, for she did nothing for several minutes. She just sat perfectly still, occasionally — a nervous tic caused by my absence, I'm sure — twitching her right hand across the crossword on the desk. Eventually she put the pen down and turned to me.

"Get in the damn shower and burn the damn clothes."

Ah, the poor soppy dear! All that worrying, and I'm sure she has a bit of a thing for me, too, and she still can always lighten the mood. I could do little but admire her bravery; the last few hours since my disappearance must have been horrible for her. I would do my best to reassure her before going across the hall to my flat (with its shower).

"I..."

"Shower. You can tell me why you clocked off early when you get out."

This was starting to go the wrong way, so I meekly retired to my ablutions. As I deposited my clothes — now overdue for retirement — on the tiled floor and stepped into the shower, I started thinking. I always found the slow, slinky saxophone music drifting through the window to be oddly conducive to thought. I never did figure out where it came from.

Memories from the night drifted back. Faces. _Figures_. A briefcase, a crowbar, and quite a few boots.

And still none of it made any sense.


End file.
